THE POET IN THE CIRCLE
He breaks open the vessel, spreads wide the horizon, brings forth stars and moons within rhythm, within flow. The ground is broken and the circle is skewed, but his bare feet sit full and heavy within the water-drenched moss, as he sings the full song of names, the full song of deliverance and fortitude. The sky may be crisp and blue, it may be ink black with promise, but the poet sees neither. Where the day and night follow each other within the tradition of the norm, the poet sees the sliding visions, the true visions. He sees and feels the electric blue whips of energy as they flush and cascade, as they stitch and unstitch reality after reality, ten thousand realities in a moment, ten thousand more in the next. As the hounds of creation and destruction, of genesis and oblivion, howl towards the shifting stars and moons, as they reach for every sunrise and sunset, the poet stands within the skewed circle, arms raised in supplication, in the joy of the unconfined, the undetachable. He sings the songs of dark innocence, and sings the songs of dark deliverance. So as the crow flies in tandem with others, as it calls out its own song to the landscape, its own song to the lonely poet, there is universal chorus, one made up of all and everything, made up of the endless living and the endless dead, of stars and moons, of hope and charity, of the poet in the circle.
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